


Keeping Up with You

by foolsonparade



Category: Arctic Monkeys, Last Shadow Puppets
Genre: Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Pneumonia, Rated for swearing, Romance, Sickfic, milex - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-25
Updated: 2015-02-25
Packaged: 2018-03-15 05:43:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,599
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3435611
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/foolsonparade/pseuds/foolsonparade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After a trip to the emergency room, Miles returns home with a pneumonia-stricken Alex and begins administering some much-needed TLC.<br/>"At least it will be a thrill keeping up with you…" -Miles Kane, My Fantasy</p>
            </blockquote>





	Keeping Up with You

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Never happened (as far as I know). I don't own Miles or Alex; I just occasionally borrow them for my twisted enjoyment.   
> Hi, everyone! This is my first time posting, as well as my first time writing Milex, and so any feedback would be greatly appreciated!  
> This is far fluffier and shorter than I initially intended, but I hope you enjoy it nonetheless!

It’s rather difficult to unlock and open a door with only one hand, and Alex repeatedly protests my “imagined” need to keep my right arm around him at all times lest he should stumble, but neither of these things stops me from toeing open the door to our home and half-carrying my tiny boyfriend in with a tight grip on his slim waist.

Fair enough, he was only in the hospital last night for observation purposes and the doctors swear he’ll be well again shortly with enough rest and proper nutrition, but I worry. It’s hard not to when he’s proven more than capable of running himself into the ground and also into a case of pneumonia, but he can’t seem to wrap his brilliant mind around this any better than he can wrap it around the idea that it’s my job as his boyfriend to worry. I’m sure he’d rather think I’m doing him a courtesy than believe the truth, which is that it’s my self-appointed duty to care for him. Big boy or not, he hasn’t got the most refined sense of self-preservation, and he needs me around just to stay alive most of the time.

“Would you get your fuckin’ hands off me, ya twat?” he growls, yanking himself out of my grip. “I don’t need you to _carry_ me, Miles. I’m ill, not fuckin’ useless.”

“Al, you damn near gave yourself a concussion yesterday. Do you need me to remind you how that happened?” Short answer: he fainted. Long answer: he insisted on performing a local benefit show while sick with what he persistently reminded me was only a cold but was later discovered to be a mild case of pneumonia. After our set, he passed out cold and was rushed via ambulance to the hospital.

“No,” he sighs, flopping tiredly onto the couch. He’s winded from the short trek to the sofa from the front door, and I can hear his breaths rattling in his chest. “I can remember very vividly, thanks.”

I doubt that this is true, seeing as he’d been submerged in the haze of a hundred-and-four degree (Fahrenheit) temperature at the time of his fainting and near-concussion-prompting experience, but it’s useless to waste valuable energy arguing petty things, most especially when I still have to coax him to eat today. What Alex lacks in his sense of self-preservation he more than makes up for with his copious stubbornness.

I seat myself beside him on the sofa and reach to brush his bangs away from his forehead. “What’re you doin’?” he asks, pulling just far enough away from my hand to allow me a perfect view of his incredulous look. Sallow as his face may be, his expressions are not lacking for it.

“I’m tryin’ to feel your temperature, Al,” I respond, pressing my hand against his heated face.

He curls his lip up in distaste. “You felt me fuckin’ temperature before we left the hospital,” he reminds me not-so-gently. Fever still rages beneath his skin and gives those doe eyes their present glassy look, and a sympathetic sadness stirs my insides. “I can’t have got much hotter since then.”

“Humor me, then,” I say though I already have the fever-hot skin of his forehead beneath my bony fingers. He’s pouting a bit, but he’s also sitting quietly and I get the sense that he’s tired himself out.

After a moment or two of studying the heat of his forehead, I slide my hand down his cheek and caress his face half-apologetically. I’m not sorry for worrying, but I’m sorry that he has to go through this in the first place. “You poor thing,” I muse, taking in his grey-hued skin and the bruise-colored rings framing his fever-bright eyes. “Can I get you anythin’?”

His Adam’s apple bobs when he gulps with a look of mild nausea etched on his expressive face, and I get the impression that it hurts his throat to swallow. A second later, he pushes my hand away from his cheek and begins coughing harshly, bent at the waist and flushed from the exertion. I can hear each cough tear through his chest like a spear and it’s no wonder that there are tears in his eyes by the time he’s finished this fit. “Sommat to drink would not be amiss,” he jests hoarsely, slender hands pressed against his chest.

“Tea or water?” I ask, already getting to my feet in eagerness to service him in any possible way.

Alex grins cheekily and suggests, “how ‘bout some whiskey?” and I smother the urge to hit him affectionately upside the head. Seeing my look, he sobers and clears his throat. “Sorry,” he croaks. “Tea would be lovely.”

“Comin’ right up.”

I traipse to the kitchen, glancing over my shoulder once or twice just to keep tabs on my ailing boyfriend, and then put the kettle on and rummage through our cabinets in search of honey. It’s not such a long search because I locate the jar of golden liquid just a moment later and get to work trying to unscrew the stubborn lid, but this gives me more time to spy on Alex.

Through the doorway, I can see him curling up on his side, head pressed against the armrest and soft hair splaying out in all directions while his round eyes fall closed. His face has paled further which leaves me to deduce that he must be in a great deal of pain, and I feel a fist of sadness tighten its grip around my heart and send my eyebrows furrowing in empathy. The poor kid’s had quite a day already, and it’s only ten in the morning.

The squealing kettle tells me that the water is done and I begin steeping the tea. I’ve gotten the lid off of the honey jar and am now doing what I can to scrape the sticky substance from the sides of the jar using a spoon I stole from our silverware drawer, watching Al from my peripheral vision all the while just in case he should need something else.

Minutes pass rather uneventfully and just a short while later I reenter the living room with two steaming cups of tea, one with honey and one blessedly black. Normally, Alex would want his just as bare as my own, but the honey should ease the pain in his throat so I’m prepared to deal with any backlash.

“Al,” I call quietly, setting the mugs down on the coffee table and sitting at the end of the couch not occupied by a seemingly-sleeping Alex. I hate to wake him, but I have high hopes that the tea will pave the way for some actual food to enter his system. In addition to keeping a scarce eye on the state of his supposed “cold,” Alex also neglected to eat much of anything during the week preceding his collapse and subsequent hospital stay, and the doctor gave strict orders regarding the ingestion of sustenance. I intend to make Alex follow such orders.

“C’mon, Al. Wake up, sweetie,” I croon as gently as I can, placing a hand on Alex’s skinny arm. He’s curled up on his side, left ear on the armrest, and I see his lips twitch.

“Fuck off,” he responds groggily, pressing his eyes tightly shut and inspiring the formation of creases in the thin skin of his eyelids. “The doctor said I need me rest, Miles. ‘m followin’ orders. You should be proud.”

“The doctor _also_ said you need to eat,” I remind him. “I’ve got your tea here. That should help your sore throat enough to eat sommat.” 

“I don’t _want_ to eat sommat,” grumbles Alex, scrunching up his nose in distaste. “I’ll probably just be sick afterwards anyway, so what’s the point?” He sniffles and uses his hand to shield a harsh cough, and I think I hear a quiet groan escape from between his parted lips.

I place my hand on his calf and rub it absently. “You have to eat on the off chance that you manage to keep it down,” I say consolingly. He’s shooting me a half-assed version of his standard argumentative stare and I offer my best impression of an apologetic smile. “Just try some soup or crackers. After that you can sleep all you want, and I’ll even be your big spoon.”

It’s obvious that I’ve won him over, for he’s wearing that look of serious contemplation usually associated with interviews or deeper discussions than the present one. At length, he confirms my suspicions when he croaks out, “Fine, I’ll _try_.”

He sits up and I reach for his mug and place it carefully in his trembling hands. I want to help him drink it, but when I make it obvious that this is my intention, he snaps, “I can do it,” and I’m forced to preoccupy myself with my own forgotten tea. Even as I sip, though, I keep track of his movements through the corner of my eye, just in case.

“Is there honey in this?” he asks hoarsely after a few glorious, complaint-free minutes.

“For your throat,” I respond instead of supplying a proper answer. I want to make a joke about his clearly very refined palette, but I don’t think it’d be especially well-received so I ignore the urge.

Surprisingly, Alex does not argue and instead contents himself with gulping down the rest of his tea in one go, suddenly heedless of the possibility of making himself sick. I can only pray that this little stunt hasn’t cost me my chance at getting him to choke down some soup before his nap.

“Alrighty, Miles Kane,” he announces, accent thick with congestion and the rawness of his throat, “do your worst.”

“I assume that means you’re ready to try some food?” I clarify, grabbing the handle of his empty mug as I stand. I spin around to meet his gaze, careful not to spill the contents of my mug, and find him looking decidedly better than he had just ten minutes before. Tea really is a cure-all.

“You assume correctly, love,” he slurs coyly. Either he’s feeling better post-tea or his fever is spiking, and I pray silently that it’s the former.

I return to the kitchen and put Al’s empty mug on the counter, taking a sip of tea before I begin digging through the cabinets for a can of chicken noodle soup. During my search, I catch sight of a Saltines package and place it on the counter in hopes that, even if the soup is a bust, I can make him eat some crackers. Of course, I doubt the little shit will do anything other than gripe no matter what food I try to force upon him, but I’ll still do what I can to make it easy on him.

A moment later, I find the soup and begin following the directions printed on the can. Through the doorway, I catch sight of Alex shifting and standing up, and I pour the soup into a small pot and put it on the stove before rushing into the living room.

“And just _where_ do you think _you_ ’re goin’?” I inquire. I think that maybe I should put my hands on my hips and tap my foot just for laughs, but I decide against it.

Al shoots me a stellar deer-in-the-headlights look and I can’t hold back a smile. Sure, it really takes the edge out of my purposely-stern demeanor, but his wide eyes and pitifully wan-looking features are too endearing to resist the grin tugging at the corners of my lips. “I was goin’ to get a book to read,” Alex explains, chewing on his lip. “Having _pneumonia_ is very boring, y’know.”

I know that he’s trying to manipulate me by pulling out the pneumonia card, but I won’t let him get away with it. “I’ll get it for you, Al,” I say. “You know all you have to do is ask.”

Suddenly, an unidentifiable emotion crosses his face and I feel almost guilty for not letting him get his book for himself. “It’s just…” he begins, swallowing hard and then coughing into his fist. “Never mind. Could ya grab me copy of _1984_ please?”

“Of course,” I agree, watching him walk dejectedly back to the sofa before heading to our shared bedroom in search of the requested book.

It doesn’t take long to locate, and when I return, Alex is lounging on the couch. He looks up at me when I hand him the book, and that almost-morose expression twists his sickly features once again and I feel something akin to a knife twisting in my chest. I don’t know what’s bothering him and I don’t expect him to tell me in a hurry, and that alone is enough to make my heart ache.

“Soup should be done in just a few minutes,” I report, placing my hand on his head and tangling my fingers up in his soft, wavy hair. He seems to relax a bit when I do this and I feel rather guilty leaving.

“Alright,” Alex acquiesces. When I turn to go, however, he hastily says, “wait,” and prompts me to swivel around and face him once again. “Could you possibly bring me some water when you get the chance?” I can’t decide if he’s blushing or if it’s the fever flush painting his cheeks pink, but either way I’m both charmed and saddened.

“Absolutely,” I say, grinning just to lighten the suddenly-somber mood. A weak smile touches Al’s lips and gives me my cue to return to the kitchen.

Once there, I discover that the soup on the stove is bubbling and I take this as a sign that it’s finished. I flip off the heat and allow the soup to cool for a minute while I pour a glass of water and pull a thing of the Saltine crackers from their box to accompany Alex’s dinner. One I’ve done all this, I search the lower cabinets for one of the trays I know we own though we rarely use them.

Two short minutes later I’m reentering the living room with a tray of food and water to find Alex dozing off with his book slipping out of his slackening grip. He jerks awake when I announce, “Soup’s on,” and I feel only a smidge guilty for startling him and inspiring that lovable look of groggy confusion.

“Already?” he asks, voice hoarse with sleep and sickness. He clears his throat and proceeds to cough harshly into his fist while repositioning himself into a more upright stance, eyes blinking sleepily.

“I’ve been gone a few minutes,” I inform him, setting the tray down on the coffee table and then rounding it to rejoin him on the sofa. “And canned soup don’t take that long.” I lift the water glass off of the tray and hold it aloft in offering, allowing Al to take it fully from my grasp with his two thin-fingered hands. He sips it hesitantly, and hands it back after only a few moments.

“Here,” I offer, lifting the whole tray and placing it in his lap. “D’you need any help?”

Alex scoffs, but the act sends him into a blessedly-short-lived coughing fit seconds later, shaking the food tray and sending ripples through the soup and water. When he’s finished, he sips his drink cautiously before picking up his spoon to begin work on the soup.

I don’t mean to stare, but I think I must because he barks, “what?” and shocks me out of whatever trance I’d fallen into.

Clearing my throat, I look elsewhere just to avoid making him nervous. “I’m just worried about you, Al. I hope you can find it in your heart to forgive me for doin’ me job.” Through my peripheral vision, I see him roll his eyes.

“Could ya maybe do your job a little less _obtrusive_ ly?” he asks, words harsher than his tone.

I ignore this, forgiving him on account of his being so ill. I realize that he must feel pretty shitty and so I’d probably be more worried if he _didn’t_ lash out at me. “Only if you eat your soup,” I bargain.

“I’m eatin’, I’m eatin’,” he announces, making quite a show of shoveling a spoonful of the broth into his mouth. “Fuck,” he swears after swallowing. “I’m definitely goin’ to be sick when this is all over.”

“And I’ll definitely hold your hair back for ya,” I retaliate.

Alex glares in my direction, but doesn’t say anything more for several long minutes. All the while his slurping noises fill the heavy atmosphere along with the faint sound of his lungs rattling with every aching breath, and for the umpteenth time today my heart stirs with sympathy and pain.

Hardly any of the soup is gone when Al announces, “I’m done,” and drops his spoon onto the tray melodramatically, and I’m half tempted to roll my eyes.

“You’re not done,” I correct. “There’s nearly a full bowl of soup there.”

“Well, you couldn’t ‘ave expected me to eat the whole thing!” he contends, raising his voice. A second later he’s rubbing his throat as if he’s hurt himself.

I shake my head. “No, I didn’t,” I allow. “But I thought you’d at least try for half!”

“ _Half_ , you wanker!? In what fantasy world could I eat half that bowl of soup?” His voice is much quieter now, probably on account of his throat, and so his words are not as threatening as they could be.

“Obviously in _my_ fantasy world,” I reply. “Can’t you eat just a bit more for me?” I send him my best orphan look—mindful of making my eyes as wide and sad as possible—and lift the spoon up from the tray to stir the soup enticingly. “And some crackers?”

Alex plasters on a look of disbelief but I see a smile of amusement tugging at the corners of his plump lips. “You’re mad,” he says, shaking his head gently. “You’re an absolute nutter. What am I goin’ ‘round with you for? You oughtta be institutionalized!” He’s full-on smiling now and I can’t resist the pull of a grin of my own.

“Probably oughtta be, yeah,” I agree, laughing. “But you couldn’t survive without me around, could ya?”

“No,” Al confesses, a faint blush creeping over his pale cheeks, “I really couldn’t.”

A content silence falls over the room, broken only when I decide to be the responsible one and resume the previous topic: “So, are ya goin’ to eat or am I goin’ to have to force-feed you?”

Alex doesn’t answer right away and for a moment this worries me. When I look over at him, however, I find that a peculiar expression has settled over his face and he’s eyeing me like he’s just remembered that he left the stove on.

“What?” I ask. “What’s the matter?”

“I’ll eat if you do,” he says in lieu of a response, his lips twitching. When I provide him with my most incredulous look, he goes on; “You ‘aven’t eaten today either, Miles. You’ve been too busy carin’ for me.”

My lips part as my tongue prepares to form an argument, but I stop it dead in its tracks when I realize that he’s right. I hadn’t even been thinking about it. “Oh,” I find myself saying.

“Eat me soup and crackers with me, Miles,” Alex commands, scooting closer to me and sliding the tray so it’s balanced upon his right thigh and my left one. “You’re not settin’ a very good example by starvin’ yourself in favor of lookin’ after me.”

I want to argue, but I can tell from his face that this is nonnegotiable so I push the tray back over into his lap and make a quick trip to the kitchen for a spare spoon. When I return, I find him munching on a Saltine and fixing me with an innocent, doe-eyed stare and I grin despite myself.

I cross the living room and position myself beside him once again, balancing the tray across our thighs just as we’d had it before. Al looks over at me with a sheepish smile and extracts a Saltine from the white packaging to hold my way in offering, eyes imploring but gentle and skin colored with a schoolboy blush as I accept the cracker and pop it in my mouth.

Swallowing, Alex says, “’m sorry I’m such a pain, Miles.” His eyes are glassy with emotion and fever, and I recognize this look as the one he gave me when I told him I’d fetch his book for him. “I know I don’t act like it, but I really do appreciate you takin’ care of me.” He pauses. “And I love you.”

I laugh, cupping his face and pressing my cool forehead against his heated one. “I love you too. You may be a pain, but you’re far more interestin’ for it. Life’s never dull around ‘ere.”

Alex smiles, unshed tears sparkling at the edges of his eyes, and I’m overwhelmed by the love I feel flood my every pore. “It certainly isn’t. Now eat some soup.” He scoops a spoonful of soup from the bowl and extends his shaking hand, coaxing open my mouth and feeding me as if I’m the one who’s been recently hospitalized.

Infuriating as he may be sometimes, it’s comforting to know that what Alex lacks in care for himself he compensates for in his love for me.

_End_

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Again, just about any feedback would be fabulous, if you've got a moment to spare.  
> Have a nice day! xoxo


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